


Decisive Victory

by shoulderpadutopia



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Bottom Damen, M/M, Massage, Pallas/Lazar if you squint, Post-Canon, Scars, Spoilers for Kings Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoulderpadutopia/pseuds/shoulderpadutopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For a slave, a first night means everything."</p><p>Also, Damen gets a massage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decisive Victory

**Author's Note:**

> I really needed some more of these two after Kings Rising.
> 
> Happy Valentines Day, you filthy animals.

When he and his company arrived at the stables, Damen was eager to dismount. He threw his reigns to the servant and immediately began to pull at the collar of his jacket. The Veretian riding leathers were restricting around the skin of his neck and shoulders which were slicked with sweat from the day’s exertions. On days like these he was thankful for the temperate Veretian summers.

“Will you dine, Exalted?” called Nikandros with a quirk of his head. Damen shook his head with an easy grin and turned to the palace.

He had been gone all day—he and a few choice companions had left Arles early that morning for boar hunting and a day of friendly sport. Damen was practically tearing out of his jacket as he bounded down the turning hallways towards the throne room. His muscles were sore. After a successful hunt, Pallas and Nikandros had cornered him for a spar. Regardless of Damen’s faith in his own strength, two had been a challenge. He fought breathlessly until his sweat mingled with the sands and he had both of them pressed into the dirt.

Outside the throne room he encountered Lazar and Jord, who bowed slightly in obeisance.

“How is he?” Damen asked easily, throwing his discarded jacket over his arm. Jord’s lips pressed into a thin line. Of course.

Lazar huffed a small breath. “Tread carefully, Highness,” he said. He made his excuses and scurried down to the stables where Pallas’s shallow scrapes were being tended by Paschal. Damen looked to Jord for clarification, worry etched into his brow.

Jord spoke carefully. “There was much opposition from the council.”

“Opposition?” Damen countered. “He is their King.”

“The resistance,” he paused, “was not directed towards _him_.”

Damen’s heart sank. It was clear to him, then, why Laurent had insisted he spend today out of doors with his men. He could see the proceedings plainly in his mind’s eye: Laurent sitting insouciantly, relaxed at the head of the table, and the ever-formal council stiffly in their seats, faces etched with permanent frowns. Endless questions about Laurent’s lack of experience would segue to his questionable ties to the barbarian Akielon King. Was the young King letting his cock make decisions for him? How would Vere fare for this young King’s foolishness? Damen rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“He has been in his rooms since it ended.” Jord looked sorry for it. He was a kind man, loyal and true. Damen knew he would have supported Laurent in today’s deliberations.

“Thank you,” Damen said, and meant. Jord nodded and took his leave.

Damen reflexively navigated the labyrinthian hallways and antechambers to the Prince’s wing. Since arriving in Arles, Laurent had not taken the chambers intended for the King, choosing to stay in his own. Damen, in accord, habited those left to the Prince consort. Approaching the delicately carved wooden door, Damen nodded to the guards who did not stop him from pushing his way in.

Laurent was hunched over the intricately carved table that doubled as his desk, furiously writing. The room was uncharacteristically messy, covered in scattered papers, stacks of books, and piles of orange peels. Laurent had cast off his outerwear which was strewn over a couch, a tangle of silks and laces. Damen tossed his riding jacket next to it, barely adding to the immense disarray. It was, frankly, a war-zone.

Laurent seemed unaware, perhaps purposely, of Damen’s presence, so Damen approached the chair slowly and placed his hands firmly on Laurent’s shoulders. He drew Laurent up, straight-backed, to wrap his arms around him. Damen hooked his chin over Laurent’s shoulder.

Laurent made a small huff of annoyance and then helplessly deflated against him. It made Damen’s chest effervesce. He let Laurent lean against the chair back and raked his fingers through his hair. Damen placed soft, chaste kisses to his neck, jaw, temples, while Laurent altogether ignored him. He waited until each slow breath Laurent took had expelled the last ribbons of tension. It was a privilege, to soothe him like this.

Eventually, Laurent spoke. “How does Pallas fare?”

“Poorly,” Damen answered.

Laurent smirked, deliberately. “So you won?” Not a question. 

“I always do.”

“Hmm,” he said easily, as if he didn’t find Damen’s impudence endlessly endearing. Damen seized the opportunity to bury his face deeper in the crook of Laurent’s neck, letting his lips linger there. A soft exhale from Laurent. “You need to bathe,” he said, contradictorily turning his head and pulling Damen up and in for a kiss.

It was slow and languid, without purpose. Laurent’s lips were impossibly soft and familiar. Damen tried not to melt too deeply into it. Laurent pulled away and then collapsed further against the chair.

Damen only curled his arms tighter around Laurent’s chest, holding him there. “I am waiting for you to tell me how today’s negotiations went,” he said softly.

“You spoke with Jord.” Knowingly.

“And Lazar. He warned me to be careful.”

Laurent smiled minutely at that. “Sound advice,” he said. “I have many sharp points.”

Laurent paused, extricating himself from Damen’s arms. He stood, piling a few loose-leaf papers into a neat stack and storing his pen back in the ink well. Damen could see him thinking, cataloguing what needed to be said and what could remain hidden, buried between them in their own silent understanding.

“My uncle’s death,” he eventually said, “helped our cause a great deal, but one celebratory day of unified patriotism cannot undo almost ten years of careful planning.” It was a truth they had both acknowledged long ago. _He plans for victory and he plans for defeat_. “He planted seeds of dissent against me for years. Even with irrefutable proof against him, loyalty to me will be hard to inspire in many, especially—” he cut himself off. Damen saw Laurent’s eyes catch on the gold of his wrist. “We find ourselves in a precarious position.”

Damen held in a breath. His own people had been so receptive to the idea of a unified kingdom. He should have known the twists and turns of the Veretian court would not be so simply won.

“Prejudice is rife within the old noble families,” Laurent continued. “They will be loyal to my uncle, perhaps bought. He left nothing to chance. There will be traps, pitfalls. He will have hidden treaties, perhaps purloined finances meant to delegitimize me.” Laurent shook his head. “I have barred my defenses,” he said, “but he was always good at picking locks.” Damen felt the words hit him and the meaning sink into his bones twofold. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Damen knew better than to try and comfort Laurent in this moment. He knew Laurent preferred to focus on explicit action, finding consolation in productivity. But he could see that Laurent was exhausted. All his energy was focused outward, on an invisible opponent, one long dead. Even in death the Regent had a hand to play. Damen wondered what exactly Vere’s supposedly most loyal councillors had said to Laurent in his absence.

“You are restless,” Damen said. “Take a walk with me.”

Laurent wheeled around and stared at him cynically, as if Damen had missed some great point. Damen could see the tension return, crawling up Laurent’s spine one vertebrae at a time, rippling out through his limbs to the ends of his fingers and toes. Damen stepped forward impotently to place a firm hand at his shoulder. Laurent immediately stiffened and knocked the hand away. A mistake, Damen realized.

Laurent was looking at him, momentarily regretful, but unapologetic, still fiercely guarding his space. “Pallas is improving,” he snapped, gesturing to a tear in the sleeve Damen’s shirt. There was a bubbled rash underneath where Damen had slid on the sand. “Or is it that you are losing your touch?”

“He is improving.” Damen said. “He and Nikandros tackled me to the ground.” Laurent seemed unimpressed.

“Have Paschal apply a salve,” he said dismissively. He was closing himself to Damen.

“Laurent, I—“ he could not get the words out. Laurent turned away from him, back rigid and tall like a glacier.

“Check on your men. Bathe. See Paschal.” Clipped words. Laurent began to file through papers haphazardly, as if looking for something. “And then we will continue. I doubt I shall sleep.”

***

Later, when Damen walked into his rooms, Laurent was sitting on the edge of his bed, lit in the dim glow of a fire. It was not an express shock to see him there, they slept together most nights. Damen would leave the decision to Laurent, who would either send for him, or climb into Damen’s bed when the candles were extinguished and the moon was high in the sky. Tonight, however, Damen was wondering if Laurent would be looking for a fight.

Damen walked over to him. Laurent’s face was placid and unemotional, illuminated beautifully in the subdued light. Damen stopped just before their legs brushed, keeping prudent space between them. He noticed a small jar of pinkish salve curled tightly in Laurent’s hand.

“I have already been tended,” Damen said, gesturing to his arm which had been covered with a thin bandage, his torso otherwise bare. Laurent almost rolled his eyes. He stood to stand in front of Damen. They were very close.

 “Lie on your stomach,” he instructed.

Damen knew better than to argue. He climbed on top of the bed which was swaddled in endlessly rich fabrics. He lie down, cheek pressed to the sheets and his arms awkwardly beside him, palms turned up. He felt the sinking of Laurent’s knees on the bed, and then, the closeness of his body. He could not see, but he knew Laurent was astride, hovering over him.

At the first touch of Laurent’s hands at his back, he drew a shaky breath. They were slicked with oil. Damen was familiar with this salve—it was a thin base, with essence of lavender and bergamot and a hint of sandalwood—for the healing of scars. The press and slide of Laurent’s hands were different than Paschal’s clinical ministrations. Each perfect slide of muscle was tremendously personal. He touched Damen like he knew where it ached.

Laurent let his body settle on top of Damen’s, a leg at either side, his bent calves flanking Damen’s thighs. His thumbs were merciless and pressed bruises into the meat of his ribs. They worked their way up from the sacrum to the apex of his spine. Damen relaxed into his touch, the first stirrings of desire beginning to light. Laurent’s hands were cruel, and they knew him well.

Time passed, and when Damen’s muscles were wrung-out, and he lay loose limbed, mouth slack, Laurent drew the oil lightly down his back. His fingers were careful whispers, only the suggestion of touch.

His hands stilled at the wings of Damen’s shoulder-blades. “These are fading,” Laurent said quietly. His fingertips traced the raised flesh of Damen’s scars. He exhaled slowly. “I am not sorry, you know.” Even in his mouth it sounded like a lie.

“I know,” said Damen, understanding.

He felt Laurent tense above him, resolute, his hands coming to rest firmly on the crest of Damen’s spine. “I would never—“

Laurent stopped. The night in the arena at Marlas came back to Damen, overturned benches, the sound of a knife thudding on the sand. He remembered saying ' _I wish—'_  and how those words hung heavy on his tongue. How they pushed out of him, stunted, powerless to change anything that had happened between them. Words were pointless here, and Laurent knew.

They didn’t speak or move, then. Damen lay there, breathing unsteadily, wanting nothing but to feel Laurent’s arms wrapped around him, but lost to the silence. Suddenly, inconceivably, he felt the dry press of Laurent’s lips. Laurent was kissing him, soothing the flayed skin of his back, the scarred, puckered flesh that once bled at his command. His lips roamed, and he kissed everywhere, every bit. His thumb would trace a scar and his lips would follow. He continued like that, endlessly. Damen felt entirely helpless.

Finally, Laurent placed a single, open mouth kiss to Damen’s shoulder. That was the final straw. Damen shifted underneath Laurent and in a deft turn, reached behind and rolled Laurent to the side so they were facing each other. He pressed Laurent to him, wrapped his arms tight around him, maybe grasping too hard. He held them there, with Laurent’s mouth at the jugular notch.

“I meant what I said,” Laurent spoke, breath hot on his neck. A shared memory between them: At Sicyon. Damen’s own voice, _‘Promise me, promise me we won’t let him—'_  and Laurent’s, _‘I promise.’_

Damen tilted his head downward. Laurent’s expression was pained. “I know they cannot—come between us,” he said, searching for the right words. “We will overcome them.” The _‘yet,’_ hung heavy in the space between them.

“Listen to me,” Damen said. “This kingdom is ours. In my mind we have already won.” Damen looked at him fiercely. “Together we can do what we cannot do apart. You said that.”

Laurent kissed him then, wildly, all open-mouthed. There was a desperation to their kisses. Once again the reality of their lives was crashing down around them. They no longer could revel in a golden cocoon of their own making. There was no decisive victory, not yet.

Damen’s hands wandered desperately, grabbing a handful of Laurent’s bed shirt and peeling it off of him. Damen would never be used to the feel of Laurent’s skin under his hands. In his distraction he hadn’t noticed that Laurent had cleverly unfastened his laces and was pulling Damen’s trousers down and off. They tossed the discarded clothing on the floor. Laurent was above Damen now and Damen surged up to take his mouth.

When they made love, Laurent would encourage Damen with soft breaths or tremblings. And now, Laurent’s breathing was uneven, especially when Damen began to trail kisses down his neck and chest. He hovered particularly where he knew Laurent liked, tongue trailing over a hard nipple and eliciting a low desperate groan. “Part of me doesn’t care,” Laurent rambled. “I don’t even care. I just want—“ Breath crested out of Laurent in a tumble as Damen used his teeth.

Damen’s own desire burned hotly. He moved them together sinuously, perfectly in tune to the small sounds Laurent made above him. In a smooth motion, he reversed their positions, pressing Laurent’s back flat to the mattress. He kissed and kissed him there, letting his tongue slide in. They were both naked and pressed together and Damen found himself frantic.

Laurent, impatient as always, pressed the jar of salve into Damen’s hand. Damen kissed him a final time and sat up, straddling Laurent’s legs. He looked at him there, spread so delicately on the bed, golden hair splayed on the pillow, waiting for Damen to fuck him. The quirk of his lips said, “Well?”

Damen coated his fingers in the oil. Laurent’s cock twitched in anticipation. Impulsively—no, not impulsively—and for the first time, Damen denied Laurent. Resolved, he reached his fingers behind him to circle his own hole.

Laurent scrambled underneath him. “What are you— _Damen_.” His eyes glazed over, pupils so blown they were almost black.

Damen didn’t stop. He let his fingers tease the opening. “I have thought of this—often. In the baths, when I am riding.” He gasped. “I want it, with you.” He let a finger slip inside, and sunk down on it, not hiding his unbearable arousal. At this he was practiced, but not on himself. He let sounds unabashedly escape his lips as he reveled in the new sensation. “Should I—“

“Yes,” choked Laurent, who was frozen underneath him. “I—“ he snapped his mouth shut.

Damen inserted another. He was beginning to stretch now. He sat up on his knees for more leverage, and when he crooked his fingers just so, he cried out at the sensitivity. He fell forward helplessly, his forehead on Laurent’s chest. “ _Oh,_ ” he said. His breath was coming so quickly and his cock throbbed where it pressed against Laurent’s leg. After a resolute moment, Damen managed to push himself up again. His fingers never stopped moving.

Laurent said, “Damen,” and he almost came then. Damen let his fingers still. Laurent’s hands ran lightly up his thighs. “You are so—“ Laurent stopped himself. Damen found himself imagining the ways that sentence could be finished, and he let out a frenzied moan. Laurent’s eyes bore into him. Damen began to move again, and impossibly, Laurent’s hands slid off of him, up and up. _“Damen.”_ Laurent was touching himself. In a moment of pure fantasy, Damen visualized it ending just like this, each of them coming without even touching, staring at one another while they milked themselves of their own pleasure.

It was too much. “I want,” Damen said, and Laurent nodded, panting the Veretian word for ‘Yes.’ Damen pushed himself off of Laurent to lay face down on the bed. He tried to prop himself on elbows and knees, just as Laurent grabbed his shoulder and tugged Damen around to face him. Laurent pressed his back flat into the mattress and held him there.

“No,” Laurent was adamant. His breath was erratic, halted inside him before it pushed out in waves. “I like it when—“ _You look at me,_ he didn’t say, but Damen knew. Laurent preferred it face to face, so Damen could kiss him breathlessly and say stupid, sentimental things. “I want you to know how it is,” Laurent said. “Like this.”

Laurent’s hand was on Damen’s chest, the other tangled in the bedsheets, willfully holding him still as he leaned over Damen. They were both primed, but hesitant. Damen reached up to smooth a hand through Laurent’s hair.

Laurent swallowed thickly. “For a slave, a first night means everything.”

“I am not a slave,” said Damen.

A few fevered breaths passed between them. Laurent opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead leaned down placed a tremulous kiss to Damen’s lips. Another. They were kissing then, hot with anticipation. When Laurent pulled away for breath, he stopped, and looked down at Damen. Damen said “Yes,” not waiting to hear the question.

Laurent’s hand disappeared as he slicked himself with oil. Damen’s legs fell open. At the first push of Laurent against him, his eyes drifted closed. And then, suddenly, Laurent was inside, and Damen’s whole body quaked. His nerves had been on fire at the mere thought, yet the feeling was unimaginable. Damen groaned helplessly at the sensation and Laurent held himself there, stock-still, within him.

When Damen opened his eyes, Laurent was staring down at him, eyes blown. Disbelieving. “I can feel you—everywhere,” he said. The idea that Laurent should move, should be impossible. It would be too much, and yet. Damen’s arms wrapped around him as Laurent began to rock slowly, each minuscule thrust plunging deeper.

Laurent was fully inside him now, his strokes more confident and beautifully wounding. Damen was sweating, shivering, so overwhelmed he could do nothing but clutch onto Laurent. “You are mine,” Laurent said.

Damen shuddered. “Yes.”

“I am inside you, and you are mine.”

It was true. _“Laurent.”_

Normally it was Damen that lost himself toward the end, who betrayed his innermost secrets, but Laurent was reeling. He was saying things he would never say sober, and yet he was sober, and he was inside of Damen. Laurent was taking him like no one else had, or would, and Damen was lost to it.

“I never,” Laurent panted, pulsing above him. “Damen.”

“I know,” Damen said, because he did. He knew what it was like to flay yourself open. He felt it then, as Laurent stroked into him ceaselessly, hitting him sweetly in his most honest place. Damen tightened his legs around Laurent’s back and took him in as far as he could. He could feel the tightening at the base of his cock, he was about to come. The reality was suddenly then too much to bear. He was going to come untouched, with Laurent inside him. His hole began to spasm. He spoke Laurent’s name over and over again, his voice splintered and foreign as he emptied himself in stripes across his stomach. Then he felt the hot jerk of Laurent on top of him, pushed to the edge by his own release. Laurent was coming then, surrendering himself, and spilling inside Damen.

They lay there like that for moments afterward, afraid to move. Damen let Laurent push the sweat dampened hair out of his face and kiss him softly at his temples. His lips were cool on Damen’s forehead. Damen leaned into Laurent’s hand which stroked into his hair and soothed him so gently. Damen tilted his head up for a real kiss.

Laurent pulled out slowly, his lips still on Damen’s, and he rolled them to their sides. Damen could feel Laurent’s come slowly trickling out of him. His cock gave a halfhearted twitch—he would mark that down for another time. He pulled Laurent closer to him and hooked his chin on top of Laurent’s head. He could feel Laurent’s soft breath on his chest.

“That was,” Laurent started. Damen did not interrupt to say _‘astounding,’_ or _‘incredible,’_ or _‘I love you.’_ “Educational,” he finished. Damen’s eyebrows shot upward. Laurent looked up at him, a smirk on his face. His hand trailed down to lewdly cup Damen’s cock. “But it seems rather wasteful, does it not?”

Damen could not keep from laughing and the sated sounds rumbled through him. Laurent was shaking alongside him, chuckling pleasantly at his own joke. Damen had to fight the urge to hit him with a pillow. He reveled in these moments together, ones that were so simple that they fleetingly forgot who they were. They had no responsibilities but to make the other laugh.

Damen hoped that one day it could be like this, but always. He propped himself up on his elbow to gaze down at Laurent.

“Earlier, when I pushed you away,” Laurent said after a while, “I didn’t— I do not mean to be cross.”

Damen stared at him in disbelief. “Are you,” he said, “apologizing to me?”

Laurent’s eyebrows creased and he sighed, vexedly. “Absolutely not.”

Damen was grinning. “Hold on, Your Highness, I must commit this moment to memory.”

“You are a fool.”

Damen bent down to kiss the scowl off Laurent’s face. “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come see me at shoulderpadutopia.tumblr.com


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